


The New Normal

by Starfire (kalypsobean)



Category: New Warriors
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/Starfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time she sees him after he walked out on her, it's because she's still the one he trusts more than everyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Normal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Supertights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supertights/gifts).



Things are so _quiet_ now; she's still not used to it. She knows, from the sirens and the excited whispering of rumours in the student union and around her in class, that things are rough out there, in that world she used to belong to. 

She doesn't watch the news anymore, and she takes her mp3 player with her when she leaves her apartment. It's too much, and she knows enough to be glad of her choice; she doesn't need to know more, to be drawn back into it and have to choose again. 

 

She's studying, or rather, flipping through second-hand coffee table books so that she can say she's studying when the phone rings and someone she doesn't know tries to make her go to a party or to the movies or anywhere involving lots of people and the inevitable alcohol. It's not the first time she's read these, traced the reliefs with her hand as if they were the real thing, but she feels peaceful when she does - these pieces are out there, existing untouched by all the destruction, stronger than the world. 

She's idly planning a trip to see them all when there's a bang and a series of thumps outside, and then a knocking on her door that should be stronger, more even, and then it stops. There's another thump; she'd ignore it but for the sound that's out of place, that doesn't belong to her neighbours coming home drunk or high or the cat from upstairs knocking over the pot plants. It's breathing, and a moan, and she knows it too well.

She ignores the ways her body betrays her, the way her hands shake and the rush of heat that has to be adrenaline, as she clears the sofa with a swipe of her arm. She tells herself it doesn't matter as she walks to the door, and then her mind goes blank when she looks through the peephole and nobody is there.

She's not in the habit of imagining things, though, so she shifts her weight onto her back foot and opens the door just enough to look around. She's out of practice, though, because the door keeps opening and then there's a body on her floor; he must have been sitting against the door and he can't hold himself up on his own, but he's got the energy to smile at her from on his back, under the blood.

"Little help?" he says, like this happens every day and it hasn't been months since they were in the same room.

 

Somehow, she manages to get him up, kick the door closed behind her, and get him over to the sofa. He's lighter than she remembers, and he hasn't shaved, and there's a big gash curving over his chest and along his side; he's bleeding on her, and she feels queasy.

She doesn't ask how it happened, not sure if she even wants to know, or if she's just trying not to be pulled back in. His helmet is gone, and there are scratches on his face, bruises just coming out around his eyes and on his neck; his arms are just as marked, like he used them as a shield and failed. It's easy to peel away his costume, though the blue and white is marred with enough red that her vision starts to blur, and she has to blink it away. He sits up when she tugs, and soon she has him stripped to the waist. 

"You'll need a new one," she says, and then mentally kicks herself for saying something so stupid.

"I have a spare," he says, as he winces. There are bruises across his chest, too, and he's still bleeding. She'll need a new sofa; the blood won't come out, she's sure, because there's so much of it. 

She starts to get up, but he's holding her hand and she has to look back at him; he's serious, and for a moment she feels like she's still all that matters to him. 

"I trust you," he says, and then it hits her, even though she knew it; she keeps a sewing kit and bandages just for this reason, because it's a habit she couldn't train herself out of, but it's different now. First, though, she finds the tequila left over from the one time she did try the college party thing, and hands it to him. It's disconcerting to see him actually drink it, straight from the bottle, but she figures it's faster than Advil, and she needs him to be calm more than she needs to be calm herself.

 

When she comes back with everything she thinks she'll need, he's flipping through her books with one hand, like he's trying not to get them dirty. 

"Tell me about it," he says, as he points to the page he's got open. She does; she lets her mind go on about iconography and technique and how many times things have been repurposed or altered to fit some political agenda as her hands move through the same routines they've done for years. She avoids looking at him as she sterilises the needle by holding it above her hand. He makes a sound and she stops just long enough to wish this was as easy as wiping his skin with a wet cloth and tucking a blanket over him.

"It's this or I cauterise it," she says, and wonders if she would have felt so out of place in the Crusades as she ties the line off and starts taping down gauze over it. He pulls away when she turns her attention to his arm and the gash over his bicep, and she gives him her best _oh really_ look. 

 

He tries to get up after that, and fails. She wets one more cloth and uses it to clean the dirt from all the places she didn't need to touch, but the silence grows too much.

"You want to lie down properly?" she says. He nods, but he's starting to fall asleep; his eyes are narrowed and the lines have smoothed from his forehead. She knows, from that time she passed out cramming for finals, that sleeping on this sofa is not a good idea come morning - there's no reason to make it worse, and he's not going anywhere.

 

His weight on her shoulder, as she half-drags him to her bed, is achingly familiar. So is the way he sounds when he falls onto the covers and he resists her attempts to pull them out from under him. But it's when he pulls her down, holds her there with his good arm so she has no choice but to pull the comforter over both of them if she wants him to rest without hurting him more, that she feels like maybe he's here for more than just a few stitches and a place to hide.


End file.
